


The Sunrise Comes at Dawn

by ryssabeth



Series: Mutant Registration [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mutant Registration Act, Not a Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Good morning, Sunshine."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sunrise Comes at Dawn

( _there are voices_ )

“Enjolras he’s been _hit_.”

“Hit with what, there’s _no way_ —“

( _they’re upset_ )

“—I can feel it, okay, Jesus, put him on the _sofa_.”

“What _happened_ out there, anyway, where did all those people _come_ from?”

( _he’s just tired very tired_ )

“It honestly doesn’t matter, can you all just shut _up_ I need to get it out of him—“

( _very very tired_ )

-

Enjolras can’t answer any questions, or pay much attention to anything other than the waves of colour ebbing and flowing under Grantaire’s skin—fading, now, with time and unconsciousness. Joly’s hands are running over Grantaire, his chest, his arms, his abdomen and his eyes are moving beneath closed lids.

“He’s been hit with the vaccine,” Joly murmurs, and the tendons in his hands tensing, standing out against the backs of his hands as he begins to _pull_. “I’m going to try and get it out.” His eyes open and he glances at Enjolras. “I need you to hold his arms—this is going to hurt.”

Enjolras says nothing, moving from the corner of the room to hold Grantaire’s arms above his head, and the colours upon him start to spiral, like dirt heading for a drain.

“Bahorel, if you could get his feet?” Bahorel treads carefully, covering Grantaire’s ankles with his hands—and this is a big step, his strength having become unstable as of late, and he could very well crush the bones beneath his palms like glass under the wheel of a car.

Joly shuts his eyes again, and curls his fingers, pressing them just under Grantaire’s ribcage. And then his arms go rigid and Grantaire twitches. And then he starts to scream.

“What’s going on?” Bahorel asks, putting no effort into keeping Grantaire pinned to the sofa. Enjolras is having a little more trouble, Grantaire’s arms straining against his own.

“The vaccine is attacking the mutant gene,” Joly murmurs, some of his words getting lost in Grantaire’s pain.  “And, in some, it’s not an issue, but Grantaire’s is—“ Joly grunts, green ooze pulling up through the skin beneath his fingertips, “—Grantaire’s is part of his physiology. Very integral—see, if _you_ were hit, Enjolras, this would be problematic for you too. Bahorel on the other hand—“ Grantaire’s mouth opens in something that grabs from Enjolras’ eardrums and squeezes them.

Joly’s hands form into fists and he scoots back away from the couch—on his knees—and yanks, the green ooze coming away from Grantaire, held aloft in a slowly shifting sphere. And Grantaire relaxes against the cushions, heaving, cold sweat sticking to him everywhere, matting his hair to his forehead.

“If Bahorel were hit with the vaccine,” Joly continues, standing slowly and moving the green toxin into the trashcan, where the sphere loses its shape and drops with a _splat_ , “he would be fine. Weak and hardly what he is now, but relatively unhurt.”

Bahorel shrugs, slipping out of the room with heavy steps toward the kitchen where the others wait for them.

The ink beneath Grantaire returns, sprouting at his bellybutton and rushing to cover his skin to his wrists, lapping at his collarbone like an ocean of darkness.

“He should be fine,” Joly says quietly. “Who knew, though, right? He’d never said anything before.” Joly claps him on the back before wiping his hands against the thighs of his jeans, following Bahorel’s route to the kitchen, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire alone, with the smell of sweat and chemicals.

The colours on Grantaire’s skin, always moving, tattoos given life, resolve themselves into pictures replaying today’s protest with stark clarity, the story running itself across Grantaire’s chest, colours dancing out of Grantaire’s pores, breathing into the room in slow tendrils before nuzzling back under his skin, a black stripe running down his left side and streaking under the hem of his jeans.

 The day starts over on his skin, a constant loop of memories, until they stutter to a stop, instead turning into clouds against the sky that is Grantaire.

Blue eyes slit open and his head turns with a groan—with cuts off into a gurgle as he meets Enjolras’ eyes. And a small smile blooms on his face, the clouds upon his skin going red with feeling, like a sunrise. “Good morning, Sunshine.”

He covers his face with his hands and his palms burn against his cheeks.


End file.
